Los que ya están muertos (Relato)
The heavy crunch of foot steps echoed behind him, bouncing off the silent, narrow buildings that loomed above the Old Town. His heels came down hard on the cobbles; the two inches of snow made footing precarious, and he did not want to slip. If his coat got wet, he might freeze before the night was over. With each heel-hammer on the stone, his mind filled with a litany of hate. Crunch. Hate. Crunch. Hate. Crunch. Hate. Hate Kislev. Crunch. Hate the damned cold. Crunch. Hate the Daemon-tainted snow that is even now soaking through four pairs of woollen socks with each srep. Hate. Hate. Hate. It has been two - no, three - years now, since he had come to the north, since he had sought his fortune in the Empty Quarter. It seemed like such a grand idea then - a wild, more lawless place, where the warrant with his name on it meant nothing, and there were no watchmen bored enough to ever make another. A land of soldiers, traders, drinkers, and wild men. A land of second chances. A land perfect for a rogue like himself and his partner, Huss, to start anew: no records, no enemies, no history. Huss was dead now. Ulle had found Huss's body washed up under a jetty with his eyes torn out and all his fingers missing. He'd asked around about gangs and such, but people had just whispered "chekist" and looked back at their kvas. Ulle had left the capital then and headed north to Praag, where they said the Tzarina's reach was weak. Not that he was sure they were after him. The chekist apparently needed no crime to enact their punishments. But Praag was a worse hell than Kislev: the people din poor and war-ravaged and the streets cloaked with Chaos-taint as much as snow. But he didn't have the money to leave. No travellers south needed a thin-armed lad, and he'd be damned before he'd go out into the oblast. That, he knew, was certain death - if not from the Trolls, then from the mad fools who lived happily among such danger. In Praag, he was at least safe from death, if not other things. The wart on his back had itched and bled when he scratched it, and then it became a fleshy nub. And then it grew and grew and gained a nail and a knuckle. He didn't have a looking glass to see it, but he didn't need to. It was Huss' ring finger, the one with the scar from the rat bite. There were three there now, and they itched so bad he had to stop sometimes in the street and rub up against a rock wall until he felt something burst and a stickiness run down under all the layers. Perhaps the single mercy Praag had provided was the constant cold. Cold to the bones. In such weather, nobody noticed a man who always wore a coat, not that it kept the cold out. Ulle couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm. Today he was wearing three undershirts, a leather jerkin, a woollen jacket, and the coat he'd taken from the streltsi, all stuffed full with straw and rags to no avail. The cold snaked under and around, and the wind blew it through everything, even wood, even stone. He had forgotten warmth, forgotten comfort. He had forgotten everything else as well. Everything except hate. In Middenheim, they said you had to be crazy to rob a priest. It was foolish to do ill to a man who spoke so often with the Gods, and his prayers for vengeance would surely be answered. But that was in another country, under other Gods. The Gods of Kislev weren't real Gods, he knew. They were shadows and Daemons, cruel and brutal even to their faithful, and mocking of those they smashed against fortune's folly. They worshipped fire because that was the only thing that kept the cold at bay. He knew what that was like - to need fire like it was a woman, like a suck of mandrake - that was enough to make anyone worship it. And the rest were just stories. There was no fear, then, in the steps that brought him closer and closer to the Lobka house. A priest, he knew, and a mad one by all accounts - mad enough to be noticed in a city like Praag that stank of madmen. Rich enough for his madness to be noticed, perhaps. Rich, definitely, for the man was now throwing away money for nothing but dirt. Ulle had been handed a piece of silver for the bucket of loam he had lugged there last week, and he had seen then the glint of gold and jewels further up the old priest's fingers. Rich, indeed, but not guarded like the druzhinas - not paranoid like the merchants. The old priest was protected by his position as a man of faith and by his reputation as a madman. In the city of Praag, where madness reigned, only a fool would try to rob those whose madness shone out bright. Maybe I am a fool, pondered Ulle, but I am less a fool than any man in this city - because he was getting out. It had taken him months, but tonight was the night. The priest was the perfect target - large payout, small risk. The time was right - the early frost had driven the few vigilant watchmen indoors for the night, and the streets were empty, despite the midnight sun still shining through the snow-haze. And the method was right - he had studied, he had watched, he had taken his time, mastered his opponents, gathered his tools. Tonight, there would be no mistakes. The hate in him sang of it, promising him victory and flooding him with strength. As the Lobka house appeared, he began to run, still heavy-footed, still nervous on the slippery snow, but desperate, sloughing forward like a man wading through mud. It was still bright, unearthly so, and tucked into the alley way by the door he would be no less visible than here on the street, but he wasn't running for concealment. He was running for the alley because in it, he was spared a small portion of the wind that whipped along the streets. For a brief second, the slight rise in temperature felt like warmth. Relaxation flooded his body in response, as if stepping out of the wind had opened a tap inside him. Then the cold came back, and with it, his purpose and his hate. Time to go. Slowly, gingerly, he pulled off his left glove with his teeth, biting hard into the wool when the skin came with it. He wobbled them grimly, noting again the price of Praag in the gap where his two smallest fingers had been. The Nippers had taken them in the last winter and half his toes. He'd almost starved that year, almost died - although, the hallucinations from the hunger had been a blessing in disguise: he had passed through most of the winter in a disoriented dream. Now there was no such comfort. With his other three fingers, he pulled off the right glove. The warmth of a glove hung on his hands for a moment, and then the burning began, the cold like a thousand nails on his skin. But he couldn't stop. He reached inside his coat, under the jacket, under the jerkin, up through his undershirts, where the fur-lined package bumped against his sweaty flesh. He pulled it out, for a moment leaving a suppurating wound in his layers of cloth, the cold air sucking in deep. With his left hand, he buttoned his coat again. With his right, he laid his package on a windowsill and began to unroll the fur-lined leather, methodically, carefully, reverently. He hadn't killed before he came to Kislev. He'd killed for this. It was a long-barrelled Bokha pistol, the kind the streltsi used. New issue, in perfect condition, sanded, oiled, and loaded. He had about five minutes before the oil began to harden, perhaps half that time before the powder would be too cold to catch first time. Time to go. The servant who opened the door was unimportant - with one lunge, Ulle threw his body past him, ignoring the screaming pain as he forced his frozen muscles to spring into action. With the pistol up, he charged towards the guard at the foot of the stairs. The man drew his sword, but by then the barrel was on his forehead, and he fell back on to the steps. Lille caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned, and shot on reflex. The second guard stood for a second, scrabbling at the black hole in his chest and then fell to his knees. A gun was good for two things, Ulle knew: shooting and intimidation. He flicked the gun around and slammed the butt into the skull of the man on the stairs. He grabbed at the guardsman's belt, taking the sword and the crossbow, and then a huge weight landed on his back. The sword dropped out of his hand. One thick arm snaked around his throat. A blade came the other direction. He shot his empty hand at it, sacrificing thick flesh to the hungry blade so he could grab the wrist. Hot blood sizzled as it hit the frosty blade. Ulle jerked his head back, slamming it into what he hoped was the nose of his attacker. He seemed to hit, as the pressure lessened on his neck for a moment. Lille curled forward next, pulling his strangler off his feet, and then he levered himself up from the stairs. He dropped the crossbow and grabbed the arm around his throat, locking his attacker to him. Then, he leapt backwards. Ulle was a big man, and the floor was hard mountain stone. His opponent groaned from the blow, and Ulle drove his head back again. The hit was so hard Ulle lost his sight for a moment, his head seeming to roll back and forth like a storm-tossed boat. But he didn't need to see. He drove his head back again, and this time, he blacked out from the pain - but only for a second. And it was enough. When he came to, there was no grip on his neck, no pressure driving the blade into his hand. The man's cracked skull had left a star-shaped pattern of blood across the snow-sifted floor. Ulle lay for a moment and caught his breath, his head ringing like a temple bell. Three guards. Three. That wasn't what he'd counted. The servant, he realised - not a servant. Another bodyguard. A hidden one. Maybe the priest wasn't as mad as everyone said. Maybe he did know just how tempting he was for a thief. A door burst open, and another guard came in, pistol raised. He stopped to aim properly. Ulle's hand went to the crossbow, but it had fallen too far away. In a panic, he lashed out with his feet, slamming his ankle down on the hand-guard. The trigger flicked, and the bolt shot across the floor. The shooter flinched. The shot went high. Ulle had the sword a moment later, and he had the speed of adrenaline, and he had his hate. He left the corpse on top of his fellows and ran up the stairs. A moment later, he rushed down again and charged out the door. He scratched a handful of snow from the street and packed it against the bloody gash in his hand. By the time he reached the first landing, the flesh was completely numb. No time to reload - the two shots would have woken half the street, let alone the people in the house. Even in this town the watch would come. Candles burned in the windows. The priest was awake, working, maybe already running, or hiding, or preparing some trap. But a gun was more than just a shot. No time to reload - the two shots would have woken half the street, let alone the people in the house. Even in this town the watch would come. Candles burned in the windows. The priest was awake, working, maybe already running, or hiding, or preparing some trap. But a gun was more than just a shot. The priest was ready for him, behind his work-table, holding a wood-cutter's axe with bravado. A dozen candles illuminated the room that covered the entire top story. Books filled the shelves, along with other curios. Bottles, jars, and other things stood in corners, swinging in and out of the swaying shadows. It smelled of acid and of the tide. Ulle raised the pistol and said one word, "Gold." The priest shook his head. "No," he said, with concern, but no fear. "Not again." Ulle walked closer, cocking and aiming truer. "Your rings. Your purse. Now." But the priest did not move. Ulle began to bubble with fury. "NOW!" he yelled, waving the pistol in the idiot's face. "Are you brained? Do you not fear death?" The priest stared at him then, with something resembling compassion. "This is Kislev, my son. We are already dead, all of us. Especially you." The priest's eyes flickered beyond Ulle, and a shadow from across the room began to move forward. For a moment, it seemed like something from a half-forgotten dream, a memory of a shape suddenly remembered, as shadow and form at once became a Human-like figure. The smell of mud and clay made his eyes water. He blinked away the tears, too entranced to look away, too terrified to scream. Once, as a boy, the neighbourhood bullies had thrown him in the canal and held him down until he had choked on mud. That memory knifed through his brain as once again he felt slick, foetid soil fill his throat and cheeks. A hard cold hand held his arm and then lifted him up as if he were a babe. He couldn't believe how fast he moved through the air - there was just the roar of exploding glass and the freezing thud as his body hit the snow below. He felt something horrible happen to his jaw, felt it drag away from him like a flopping piece of skin on a sliced finger. He tried to spit out mud but it was like trying to grab a flame. Somehow, though, he got to his feet. There was enough hate left in him for that. Hate for Kislev. Hate for the stupid priest. Hate for whatever dark sorcery had brought that monster down upon him. He looked up. A dark shadow was framed in the shattered window above. Candles burned the curtains. It looked like nightmare given form. He raised his empty pistol as if willing it to find life again and fire. But even if had a bullet, the snow had killed the powder by now, he knew. His ungloved fingers would be next. He had to get away, had to get warm. Then he saw the movement around him, heard voices through his ringing, ice-filled ears. The watch had come. He wondered if it was for him or for the Daemon above. He wondered if he cared. There was no warning. He was expecting yells for surrender, talk of arrest, but there was just a mass retort, and bullets tore through his flesh, black blood dripping out behind them. As he fell, he looked up and saw that the fog had cleared. And there was the Tambour, and the Maiden, and Gnuthus the Ox. It reminded him that he hadn't seen his sign - the Limner's Line - since he came north. That was an Empire sign, not visible in this damned country. He hated that. He hated that he could not see his stars. And then he died. ----------------------------- Twenty-four hours later, the dirt shook and fell in the Bleakness, and fists and feet smashed through soil and frost. For a moment, Ulle wondered how the bullets could have grazed him. For a moment, he was glad they had buried him in the thick streltsi coat. Then he remembered he was in Kislev, and he hated it. He hated the snow, and the cold, and the people. Hated the damned ice on the streets that crunched beneath his boots. Crunch. Hated the wind that burned through him. Crunch. Hated the city that mocked him. Crunch. Hated the starless sky. Crunch. Hated the world. Hate. Hate. Hate. Fuente * Warhammer Fantasy JdR: Realm of the Ice Queen (2ª Ed. Rol). Categoría:Relato Kislev Categoría:Pendiente de traducir